


Sapphire In the Stone

by MatleenaMaddie, SilverWing15



Series: What Is Precious [4]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Found Family, Gen, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29637189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatleenaMaddie/pseuds/MatleenaMaddie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverWing15/pseuds/SilverWing15
Summary: The man takes one look at the both of them and staggers away.“Thanks for the save,” Phil says, idly examining the knife. He holds it out to Will.“Maybe you should keep it,” Wilbur laughs, “seems like you’re in more danger in these parts than me.”Phil laughs, “I’ve got my own ways of keeping safe mate.”Third prequel fic for Ruby In The Moonlight!
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Series: What Is Precious [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138133
Comments: 17
Kudos: 192
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	Sapphire In the Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I'm late posting this fam, I meant to do it yesterday but it just didn't happen. 
> 
> First off, credit goes to aVoidofRoses for the title of this one! They had a suggestion that was much better than the title I originally had planned for this one. 
> 
> This was the fic that just Kept Going and eventually I ended cutting it here because I wanted to work on other stuff, which meant that the original title (Silver in the Sunlight) didn't really fit for it anymore. Hopefully either Maddie or I will get around to writing that at some point, but she's been busy working on Diamond and I've gotten caught up in my new AU--more on that in the end notes. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you guys enjoy the fic and thanks to everyone who's read!

He’s on his way home from shift, bone tired, still a little shaky from a close call with the machinery, so he’s on edge. He nearly bolts when the man steps out of the shadows. 

“Sorry,” he says, voice cultured. He’s one of the rich types, got a nice green coat, golden hair pulled into a low tail under his hat. Wilbur’s honestly surprised that he bothered speaking to him. 

“Its alright,” he says, because he’ll be polite if this guy will, “just a little jumpy.” 

“Understandable,” the man says, leaning against the wall as if it won’t ruin his nice jacket. Maybe he’s rich enough that he doesn’t care, he can probably buy hundreds of nice jackets. Wilbur pulls his ragged, thin one closer around himself. “What are you doing out so late?” 

“Coming home from shift,” Wilbur replies, he should be getting home, but he finds himself lingering. 

“They’ve got you working late,” the rich man says. 

Wilbur hums, “the higher ups aren’t too fond of me,” he admits. 

“Oh?” There’s a bit of amusement in the man’s voice, “troublemaker?” 

“Union boy,” Wilbur replies with a gesture to himself, “the worst kind of trouble in their eyes.” He probably shouldn’t be saying this sort of thing to a rich man, they don’t tend to take it well, but this one laughs, a low, rich sound. 

“Good on you, give ‘em hell kid. Stay safe.” 

“I have been,” Will laughs, and the rich man turns away to his own business and Wilbur goes home. Home to his lonely little shack that could never hold him, Tommy, and Tubbo despite how much he wants to get them out from under Matron’s thumb. They’ll have three square meals and a warm place to sleep at the orphanage, despite all of its faults. Wilbur can’t give them that, not on his salary. 

He hangs his coat by the door and collapses carefully into his rickety chair and eats his meagre dinner and sleeps in his hard bed under his thin blanket. In the morning he gets up and goes back to the factory and works. He works all day, and he whispers about the union to any ear that will listen and smirks at the hateful eye of the overseer. 

When his shift ends late that evening he punches his card and he steps out into the chill air and makes his way home. He keeps his collar high and his hat low on his head, sheltering in his ragged coat as best he can. 

Its dark on his way home, no lamplighter would bother with this district, so he doesn’t see the man so much as he does hear him. He’s standing at the same corner as before, in different clothes, but he’s still got that hat that hides his face in shadow. He’s talking to a Huntsman, surprisingly. Their voices low and laughing in the night. 

Wilbur intends to walk past them, but the man calls out to him as he goes, “hey, union boy, good to see you again.” 

“You too,” Will says, surprised that the man bothered to remember him. 

“This is Eret,” the rich man says, “old friend. Eret this is...huh. Guess I didn’t get your name.” 

“Wilbur.” 

The man smiles, “Phil.” He doesn’t hold his hand out to shake but he’s pretty polite for a rich guy talking to a dirt poor factory worker so Will isn’t too offended. 

“Nice to meet you,” Eret says, his voice is deep and rich, he’s smiling beneath the mask, though his eyes are hidden. 

“You too,” Wilbur figures the conversation is over there and turns to head home when Phil’s voice calls to him. 

“Be careful on your way back, there were some ghouls around here earlier.” 

That would explain why a hunter is hanging around a random backstreet at nightfall. 

“I will.” 

He goes home, he hangs up his coat and he sits in his rickety chair to eat a meagre dinner and he lays in his cold bed and he wakes up to do it all over again. His week is a blur of shift after shift, day in day out, one cog in the machine. 

Every evening he makes his way home on the same street as always and Phil is there. They don’t talk about much, only polite small talk, but it is more than most people share passing each other on the street through the night. 

Wilbur wonders where Phil is going every night sometimes, but he imagines its some rich man’s game of poker, or some party. He wonders what makes the man say hello to him every night, and what makes him inquire about his day, he appreciates it nonetheless. He sometimes starts to forget that he’s human in all of the machinery that surrounds him. 

He drags himself out of bed on Saturday morning and walks not to the factory, but to the orphanage. He plasters a carefree smile on his face as he rounds the back of the building and finds Tommy and Tubbo waiting for them. They beam back at him, practically vibrating with excitement. 

He takes them to the zoo, sneaks them past the guards to avoid paying for tickets and shows them the animals. He smiles and listens to them ramble about the jungle cats and the bears and thinks about how he feels just as caged as these animals. Trapped not by steel bars and concrete, but by wages and machines. 

Surely things could be better. If the Unions get the upper hand, if the fat cats in their suits could be just a little less fat. 

He returns the boys at mid day and goes in for his shift. Just another cog in the machine again. He does his work and the overseer glares at him and he whispers to his fellow cogs. He clocks out late in the evening, his coat too thin against the night breeze and walks home. 

He’s later than he usually is, so he doesn’t expect to see Phil, but he hears a voice ahead of him. 

“Hand over your money,” a man growls, “and I won’t cut your fancy throat, rich boy.” 

“There’s no need for violence,” Phil’s voice responds, “if you need money you can just ask.” 

Will comes around the corner and sees Phil standing in shadow, before him is a man with a knife brandished towards Phil, his teeth gritted with rage. “I said--” 

Wilbur sees the moment Phil realizes he’s there. A subtle tension slips out of his shoulders. When Will became someone that a rich man would trust in the middle of a robbery he doesn’t know. 

But Phil’s a decent companion, even if he is rich, so Wilbur creeps up behind the other man and grasps him by the shoulder. The man turns to him, surprised and angry, but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything before WIlbur’s fist is in his teeth.

The man staggers, the knife slips out of his fingers and Will gives him a kick to keep him going. “Get out of here,” he says as Phil bends down and picks up the weapon. 

The man takes one look at the both of them and staggers away. 

“Thanks for the save,” Phil says, idly examining the knife. He holds it out to Will. 

“Maybe you should keep it,” Wilbur laughs, “seems like you’re in more danger in these parts than me.” 

Phil laughs, “I’ve got my own ways of keeping safe mate,” he says, but he tucks the knife away all the same. “You alright? I think you bloodied your knuckles a bit.” 

Wilbur glances at his hand and finds that Phil is right, “I’ll be okay,” he says, shaking it out to try and get rid of the sting of broken skin. 

“Thanks again for saving me mate,” Phil says. 

“No problem,” Wilbur replies, and once again they go on their separate ways into the night. 

Weeks slip by, and every evening Wilbur passes Phil on the street and they talk of unimportant things. 

“Why are you out here?” Will asks one night, “surely there’s better things for someone like you to do than hang out on some street corner.” 

Phil laughs, “I have my reasons, besides, you meet all kinds of interesting people. Met a good friend this way actually.”

“Really?” Wilbur asks, “you’ll have to tell me about that sometime.” 

“Maybe I will,” Phil says, and once again they go their separate ways. 

Another week slips by, but when he goes to see the boys that weekend, only Tubbo meets him. Looking somber and scared. “Tommy’s sick,” he says, and throws Will’s world into chaos. He follows Tubbo back inside and sits at Tommy’s bedside. Its not something _too_ serious, yet. Just a cough and sniffles, but everyone has seen this sort of thing devolve into pneumonia without medication. 

He sits at Tommy’s side for as long as he can, and when he goes in for his shift that afternoon, he walks up to the overseer and asks for more work. He works and he works, and he skips his meals whenever he can. Anything to save the scraps of money he earns. It has to be enough, he has to get enough. He has to save Tommy’s life, even if it costs him his own. 

The next week is a blur, more than usual. He goes in early and he comes back late, he picks up side jobs, he works and works and works. But his pay at the end of the week is barely more than it was before. Tears burn at his eyes, but he shoves them down, shoves them aside. He has no time for them. He just needs to work harder, work more. 

He just has to save up enough to save his brother. 

He staggers home well after midnight. Its dangerous, stupidly so, to be out so late at night, so weakened. He leans on the wall as he walks, its the only thing keeping him upright at this point. If any ghoul were to come across him now he wouldn’t even be able to run. 

It isn’t a ghoul that finds him though. Instead a familiar voice calls out “Wilbur?” 

“Phil?” he rasps, lifting his head an inch. Its so heavy. 

A gloved hand lands on his shoulder, “Will are you alright? What happened? Did someone attack you?” Phil sounds distraught, but also angry. Like he’s going to track down whoever hurt Wilbur. That’s a funny thought, but Phil is a funny guy. 

“No,” Will manages to say, “just...tired.” 

“You haven’t been around for awhile,” Phil says, “have you been taking extra shifts?” 

Will nods miserably, “its not enough.” 

“Enough for what?” 

“My brother. He’s sick, he needs medicine. I have to--” 

“You need to rest,” Phil says, “you’re dead on your feet.” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“No, you won’t. I don’t think you’ll even make it home at this rate. Not on your own.” 

Phil ducks under his arm, he’s shorter than Will, but he’s apparently a lot stronger than he looks because he doesn’t seem to struggle with supporting nearly Wilbur’s entire weight on his own. “Where do you live?” 

“Phil--” 

“Wilbur, where do you live?” Even this close, Will can’t see Phil’s eyes under the shadowed brim of his hat, but he knows that he’s getting a Look. 

He sighs, “down by the tracks, take a left up here.” 

Phil nods and they make their way down the streets together, for once. “What does your brother have?” 

“A cough,” Will finds himself saying, “nothing bad yet but I’ve seen it get worse.” 

Phil grunts, his mouth pulling down into a frown, “you should have come to me.” 

Will would have stopped dead in the middle of the street if Phil wasn’t practically carrying him, “what? Why would I?” 

“You’re mine-- my friend,” Phil says, “I would have helped you. You don’t have to work yourself to the bone.” 

“I don’t need your pity,” Wilbur nearly sneers. Its foolish, he _does_ need Phil’s pity, if he wants to save Tommy without working himself to death. 

“Its not pity.” 

Will glances’ up to Phil’s shadowed face, “you really care? Some rich man talking to a used up union boy every night on his way to some party?” 

Phil’s smile is warm and a little fatherly almost. Will doesn't think he’s ever been hit with a fatherly smile, he doesn’t know how to feel about it. He’s long nurtured a seeling of lonely, childish desire, but he’s a man grown now, he doesn’t need parents. He never did. 

“You think I stop and talk to just anyone?” Phil asks, “maybe its not the most conventional of friendships, but mine rarely are, as it turns out.” 

Will snorts, low and disbelieving, “if you say so.” 

“Do you not consider us friends?” 

Will opens his mouth to say no, but who else does he talk to? Besides Tommy and Tubbo, besides whispering about the union into the ears of people too bone tired to actually implement it. “I guess I do,” he realizes. 

Phil smiles at him again, “that’s the spirit. Now, right or left up here?” 

“Left.” 

Phil drags him home, and maybe Wilbur should be ashamed to show this coifed rich man his shack with its thin walls and ratty bed, but Phil doesn’t even blink at it. “I’ve seen worse,” he says with a laugh in his tone. Like he’s telling a joke that only he gets. 

He makes Will lay down and hands him the stale crust of bread that is just about the only thing left in his pantry. “Get some rest,” Phil commands, “we’ll see about your brother.” 

Will should keep awake, should try to talk to Phil about this. But Phil rests a hand on his head and suddenly he can’t keep his eyes open. 

*** 

He wakes up feeling better rested than he has in years. Like he’s slept for days instead of just a few hours. The sun is peeking over the rooftops, shining through his drafty window and onto a note penned with an elegant hand. 

_This should be enough for a restoration potion and a few other things. Tell me when you need more, don’t let your pride get ahead of you_. 

\--- _Philip_

There’s a stack of money next to the note, more than enough for a potion, when Will counts it. He holds the money to his chest and cries. 

Part of him wants to refuse it, he’s never needed a rich man’s charity before now. But he _does_ need it, he _has_ needed it, now he just _has_ it. He’s not going to be a prideful fool and let it slip away. Tommy needs this potion far more than Will needs to cling to his pride. 

He doesn’t go to the factory today, they’ll dock his wages, but for once, he can afford it. 

Tommy is worse when he gets to the orphanage, laying in bed looking smaller than he should. He’s always so loud, so energetic, it makes him seem twice his usual size. Without his wild gestures and high laughter, he seems so small. Like Will could cradle him in his arms like a baby. 

He barely opens his eyes when Will props him up, carefully popping the cork off of the precious potion and pouring it down his throat. His eyes are glazed and unfocused, wandering lazily from one point to the next. “You’ll be alright,” Will promises, brushing back his hair from his sweaty brow. “I’ve got you Tommy. I’ve got you. I won’t leave you.” 

For a moment Tommy’s eyes focus on him and he makes a questioning croak. Will smiles, “Hi Toms.” 

Tommy hums hoarsely and closes his eyes, snuggling closer. His breathing already seems easier, his forehead cooler. 

“Where’d you get the money for that,” Matron asks suspiciously as he leaves. She hasn’t changed a bit since he was under her care. 

“A friend.” 

Matron watches him with narrow eyes, “I don’t want criminal types around here,” she says, “these boys are trouble enough as it is.” 

“No need to worry about that,” Will replies, “he’s a good man.” 

Matron hums, unconvinced, but she doesn’t argue at least. 

He stays with Tommy and Tubbo for the rest of the day, and the one after that, but as much as he wants to, he can’t stay forever. 

He doesn’t go to the factory, he doesn’t go to the shops either. He squirrels the rest of the money away to save for another emergency, even if his coat is thin and his belly is empty. That evening, he goes back to the street and sure enough Phil is there. 

“I thought you might show up,” Phil says, laughter in his tone, but there is worry as well, and a sort of soft disapproval. “You should be resting more.” 

“I feel fine,” Will assures him. “I wanted to say thank you. For. Everything.” He shuffles awkwardly, unsure how to convey to Phil the depths of his gratitude. How do you tell a man that you didn’t even realize was your friend that he has just saved your entire world? 

“Don’t mention it mate,” Phil says easily. As if it isn’t a big deal. Maybe it isn’t for him. 

*** 

Will goes back to work. He whispers into more and more ears, its amazing the boldness of having a cushion to fall back on should he be fired gives him. The overseers glare at him all the more fiercely, a few of them even go out of their way to bump his shoulders as he walks past them. One whispers a half-unintelligible threat into his ear. 

He thinks nothing of it until he’s on his way home and hears footsteps behind him. He glances back and sees a group of men slink into the shadows. Not many, only three, but more then he has any chance of fighting on his own. 

He walks faster, hoping to lose them in the maze dark alleys that make up his route home. 

It doesn’t work. He’s almost there when someone steps onto the street ahead of him. Too broad and raggedly dressed to be Phil. Wilbur turns, but there are already two other men behind him.

 _Fuck_. 

“You’ve been making trouble for the boss,” the first man says, smacking a pipe into his palm, “so we’re gonna make some trouble for you. Got that union boy?” 

Wilbur sniffs disdainfully even as his eyes dart around the alley, looking for an escape, a weapon. “You know,” he says, hoping to buy time, “the union isn’t just for factory workers. You could join too. You get paid what...ten shillings for beating me up in an alley? Twenty? If you all banded together, you could--” 

He’s cut off when the man buries a fist in his gut. “Don’t need no fancy words,” he growls, behind them, Will can hear the other men approaching. “Don’t even need money,” the man continues, shoving Will’s shoulder so he staggers back into the wall. “I just do this for fun.” 

Another fist slams into his jaw and stars burst across his vision. He loses track of everything but the pain blooming across his body as the men beat him to the ground. The next thing he knows, he’s curled on the ground, boots kicking him mercilessly. 

Then they stop. 

Something is watching them. They are aware of it in an animal, instinctual way, a whispering of ancient instincts: _predator._ Wilbur raises his head cautiously out of the shelter of his arms.

The world spins around him and he muffles a groan only because of the instinctive fear. Nausea churns in his stomach. 

Between the men’s legs, he can see another pair of shoes approaching. 

They’re nice shoes, probably cost more than he earns in a week. The edge of a green cloak brushes against the man’s calves. 

Its familiar. 

“Keep on walking,” one of the men says, trying to be menacing, but there is too much fear in his voice for it to work. “Nothing to see here.” 

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Phil says, low and quiet. There is effortless malice in his voice, the sort that makes a chill of fear race down Will’s spine. The men shift, backing away as Phil comes closer. 

He’s not wearing his hat, the moon shines bright, revealing his crimson eyes. 

Wilbur knows the moment the goons meet Phil’s gaze because as one they all relax. The pipe drops out of the leader’s hands with a clatter that makes Will jump but doesn’t seem to register with the goons at all. 

Thralled. 

“Leave,” Phil commands them, “forget you were ever here.” 

As one, the men turn and stumble away like they’re drunk, or sleepwalking, and Wilbur is left alone with a vampire. 

The tension leaves Phil’s muscles and he turns his crimson eyes down to Wilbur. 

“Hey mate,” he says quietly, his hands are loose at his side, fingers spread, palms showing. Like he’s surrendering. But he can’t be, because Phil is Undead, and Wilbur is on the ground, wounded and bleeding. 

He presses a hand to a feely bleeding cut on his wrist, as futile as it is. How long has Phil been a vampire? It must be recent, he was talking to a Huntsman only a few weeks ago. By Prime Phil died. Phil died and now he’s going to kill Wilbur. 

“Easy,” Phil says, he doesn’t come closer, but Will knows its just a matter of time. 

He scoots back but he’s already pressed to the wall. Fuck. _Fuck_. He’s told Phil about the boys, what if he goes after them? He clearly feels some sort of possessiveness about Wilbur. 

Its honestly surprising that he didn’t slaughter those goons and drink them. Maybe he’s just obsessed with Will then. Fuck. 

It hurts to breathe as hard as he is, he’s definitely cracked a rib, if not broken one. At least it won’t be bothering him for much longer. 

Phil kneels, holding his hands out to his sides. “Will, you don’t need to be scared, I promise.” 

Will scoffs, keeping his eyes carefully downcast. He doesn’t want to get thralled. He’s always known that he’d die one day and he’s always resolved to face it on his feet. The way the world is spinning around him really makes it difficult to get to his feet but at least he won’t fucking _thank_ the vampire that’s killing him. 

Will grits his teeth, shoving himself up so he’s sitting against the wall instead of laying at the base of it. “You’re a vampire,” he hisses. 

Phil winces, “I am.” 

“How long?” He can’t have been turned tonight, he’s got some level of control. Everyone knows that fledglings are wild, out of control. 

“Four hundred years,” Phil says with a wry smile, then he shrugs, “give or take.” 

Wilbur stares. “What?” 

“I was turned in 1450-ish,” Phil says, like Wilbur was confused about the date and not the fact that he had been a vampire the entire time Will knew him. He’d been a vampire the entirety of Will’s life, and well before it. “I’m not going to hurt you Will,” Phil says more solemnly. 

“Why?” 

“You’re my friend,” there is sadness in his tone. It doesn’t make sense. Vampires don’t have friends, but vampires also don’t spend their nights talking with random factory workers who happen to pass by them on their way home. Vampires don’t give those factory workers money to save their little brothers. 

“I don’t--” Will has to pause to wince, rasing a hand to his ribs. “I don’t understand.” 

“Its a lot to take in,” Phil says carefully, “and you’ve probably got one hell of a concussion, looking at that bruise.” Slowly, so slowly that Will could pull away even in his state, Phil reaches out a hand and turns Will’s face to the side. He winces, drawing a hiss in through his teeth, “that looks like it hurts.” 

“It does,” Will answers because what else can he say? What can he do? 

“Your ribs too?” Phil asks, he nudges Will’s hand aside and presses ever so gently against the bone. Will gasps at the pain and Phil immediately stops, “yeah, those are broken.” 

Will leans his head against the wall, “fuck.” Resting his head against the wall makes the world stop spinning at least, that’s nice. He closes his eyes. 

“Will, you have to stay awake, mate.” 

He mumbles something, its hard to get his tongue to cooperate, but he opens his eyes again. Phil is closer, looking him dead in the eyes. Shit. He glances down. 

“I’m not gonna thrall you,” Phil says, he sounds tired, sad. “Let me get you home, Will, you need help.” Cold, solid hands lift him to his feet, he staggers, caught between conflicting impulses to lean on Phil and get away from him. 

His ribs scream with pain and his head is spinning so much that he can’t get his feet under himself. Just like the day that he had overworked himself, Phil tucks himself under Will’s arm and supports his weight. 

“You’ll be alright mate,” he says, “we’ll get you fixed up.” 

Wilbur tries to pull away, but Phil is worlds stronger than him, and not injured besides. In the end, he has no choice but to go where the vampire takes him. 

Which, it turns out is a corner not too far from the street where they meet up. There is a carriage waiting there, and a woman on the driver’s stoop. “Phil?” she asks, voice worried, she’s got an accent. Something foreign, he can’t place it. 

“Help me get him in,” Phil commands, “he’s hurt.” 

Another set of hands grabs his other arm, warm, living. He looks to the woman’s face, no red eyes. They urge him into the carriage and he slumps into the seat, his hand guarding his ribs. The woman leaves and the carriage clatters down the street. 

He has no idea where they’re going, where the vampire is taking him. Why he would take him somewhere in the first place. 

Phil said that Wilbur was his friend. He’d given Will the money to get Tommy medicine. Why would a vampire do that if not for friendship? 

Its all too much to consider while his head is spinning so much. Phil is in the seat across from him, watching with worried crimson eyes, one hand hovering in the air between them. Like he’s prepared to catch Will if he falls over. 

All he wanted to do was get home to his little shack. It all went so far off the rails so quickly. 

“I guess I’m fired,” Will mutters. 

Phil laughs softly, “yeah, safe to say that much.” 

“Fuck.” 

“We’ll figure something out,” Phil promises. “Just keep awake.” 

Will leans his head on the wall and focuses on not falling asleep. 

*** 

He doesn’t know how long they travel, or where they end up. All he knows is Phil leads him up a set of low stairs and to a grand doorway. The house is warm, Niki is beside him. There is another man in front of him, large, looking surprised and worried. 

“Another stray, Phil?” he asks, his voice a low rumble. 

“You know me,” Phil replies. “He’s got a concussion, and some broken ribs.” 

“Lets get him fixed up then I suppose.” 

He’s guided through ornate hallways and directed onto a low couch. There is a clatter of bottles behind him and then the large man reappears in front of him. “Drink this,” he says, holding up a phial filled with bright pink liquid. 

Its probably stupid, but Wilbur’s already done plenty of dumb stuff tonight. He throws his head back and drinks it all in one go. It tastes utterly _vile_ but he can feel the warmth seeping through him already. His head stops spinning, its easier to breathe. 

He’s also suddenly exhausted. 

“Shit,” he mutters, catching himself with one hand as he nearly faints like some rich lady in a fit of the vapors. 

Phil laughs softly and cold hands guide him into laying down, “get some rest mate, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

*** 

He does, when he wakes up he’s not even got a headache. He is in a vampire’s lair, but with a clear head that seems a bit less of a problem than it did last night. 

Instinctively, emotionally, he is afraid, he is terrified. He and the other boys spent who knows how many nights keeping each other up in the late hours with stories of what happened to people who ended up in a vampire’s clutches. 

Logically, however, he doesn’t think there’s much to be scared of in this situation. There is no reason for Phil to have feigned this friendship, for him to have lied about being a vampire for as long as he has. He was speaking to a huntsman just the other day. So either he is capable of disguising himself even from them, or they already know Phil--and his friend--are in the city and they are on friendly terms. 

Interesting. 

Will sits up, the taste of the potion is lingering in his mouth, but thankfully there’s a carafe of water and a glass at his bedside. 

He drinks a couple glasses, swishing it around in his mouth before he swallows. By the time he’s at the bottom of the second glass, a knock sounds on his door. Phil, it’ll have to be, or the other guy. 

“Hey mate,” Phil says, maybe a little hesitant. 

“Phil,” Wilbur replies, “I guess this explains what you were doing out on the streets every night.” 

Phil laughs, an honest sort of sound, the way he’s laughed the whole time Will’s known him. When he’s been a vampire, apparently. “Yeah.” 

“But there’s been no bodies in that area of town. Fewer than usual, really. Maybe a few people getting sick, but nobody’s died. I’d have heard about it.” 

“We don’t kill.” Phil says, serious, “that’s the deal.” 

Will nods, so there’s some sort of deal in place. He wonders if its just with the Huntsmen or if the Spirit himself is involved. Could go either way. 

“You just drink a bit and send people on their way then.” 

“With a potion, usually,” Phil says with a nod. 

“But not me?” 

Phil shuffles a bit, “I was going to, nothing personal, you know but…” 

“But instead we talked. And then we kept on talking.” 

“Well, I get bored of talking to just Techno and Niki,” Phil says, “you were interesting. You still are.” 

“So you want to keep talking then?” 

“If you do.” 

Will lifts an eyebrow, “I thought vampires were possessive, you saying that if I tell you to get lost you will?” 

“I’ll do my best.” 

Wilbur hums thoughtfully, “I guess its a good thing I don’t mind you hanging around then.” 

“Really?” Phil asks, head tilted, ruby eyes glinting with curiosity. 

“You’re pretty interesting too, not everyone can say that they’ve talked to someone four hundred years old.” 

Phil laughs, “just wait til you meet Techno,” he says, there’s something relived in the set of his shoulders, “he’s even older than me.” 

“I look forward to it.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The next AU that I'll end up posting is Mer AU! I've been working on it for a while now and I'm finally getting close to the end! Its been a bit of a problem child, I ended up rewriting it from the ground up when I was four chapters in and I'm really liking this new version (I'm on chapter ten currently) but its a hard one to write. Lots of heavy stuff in that one, there'll be warnings galore on this bad boy once its posted. A sneak peek for you guys though: 
> 
> "Tommy is nothing like the wild mer out in the ocean, who spend their lives scraping by just to survive, who kicked him out of the pod when he was a baby because he was too small. He’s also better than the pit mer, who can’t overcome their wild instincts and know nothing but fighting.  
> He’s different from them, he’s better than them. He’s Dream’s. "
> 
> Also be sure to check out the AU that Maddie is posting atm: Prince Of End  
> I got to read bits of it as she wrote and y'all are in for a Treat. Good Shit.


End file.
